Time to Say Goodbye
by PadfootandProngs91
Summary: Complete Four women. Four stories. One death that changed each of them. From the perfect headline to a ticking clock, these four women remember the night he died, the night he changed their lives.
1. A Journalist's Dream

**Disclaimer:** As with all fanfiction, none of characters are owned by me.  
**Author's Note:** This was submitted for the SAYS October Compeition. Want to thank SiriuslyCrack, Lyn, and Juls for helping me correct my mistakes throughout this entire piece.

A thin woman sat at a large oak desk, her normally heel clad feet piled atop the furniture. In her hands was a collection of interviews, each no doubt more tedious to read than the previous.

If only she could have another story like that one. Merlin himself would've rose from the grave if he had gotten that story. The glory of its details, of the tragedy that had taken place. It had made her more excited that she had ever been.

But until then she had been the lowest of the journalistic pyramid, which was the case at present as well. After that insufferable girl pulled her from the work force, she had been trying to claw her way back up. But no one listened; no one cared about Rita Skeeter.

All that climbing and falling lead to the day she finally surfaced. Sitting in the café wire chair, the smell of coffee drowning out the cries of children along Diagon Alley. Part of Rita had wished at that moment that the streets were as barren as they had been when the Dark Lord was still feared. Maybe then she could've enjoyed a decent cup of coffee.

But as she had sat there, horrifying shouts and laughter came from the far end of the lane. Parents rushed their children inside in hopes of shielding them from whatever had made such sounds. Rita could remember herself twisting in the chair only to see smoke, among it flashes of brightly colored lights. Spells, to be more specific.

In a near flash, she had sprinted from the chair, coffee forgotten. It was not the human in her, worrying for the children nor the urge to help that made her run so fast. It was the horror of missing any of the fight. Why, if she had missed a single spell, how could it be on the front page of the Prophet? 

With spells flashing and Aurors pushing her from every direction, Rita had barely seen the particular spell that had hit him. The man had fallen, the sound of his head smashing into the road nearly sickened her. But his hair had caught her eye, the well known fiery red. The woman who had sent the spell had captivated her as well. Rita had watched as she had dropped her wand, sinking onto the floor with more tears than imaginable.

Rita sighed, looking back down at the papers she still held. How could she have gone from such a story to seated, late at night, sorting papers job? Had there not been a death that night, one that nearly plagued an entire family and more? Yet she still sat, interviews now her work, not the stories she had loved.

Still loved.

The newspapers and articles she had read as a child seemed to have never taught her about the true meaning of a journalist. What the horrid paperwork involved was never told through those pages of epic adventures. If they had, Rita was certain she would've picked something more exciting in all aspects. Perhaps being a flubberworm expert.

Now, now—let's be a little less critical. Sure, the papers had become the most horrifying part of Rita's career. But quite honestly, she did have many other duties as a journalist. You see, she had to file the interviews as well.

She sighed, dropping her feet to the floor. Rita pushed her glasses up her nose, roughly shoving the stack of oh so dreadful papers onto the table top. It seemed that she finally gave up...

She stood, staggering as the blood rushed towards the tips of her toes. A tickling sensation shot up her legs as she stepped forward, each fast asleep. Rita hesitantly stepped forward once more, a rare giggle escaping her as the humorous feeling shot up once more.

Rita slowly walked to the far wall of her office, or in better terms, her closet. Really, an office the size of a postage stamp couldn't possibly be called an office. None the less, Rita stood in front of the far wall. Framed and mounted was an article. The particular one mentioned countless times above. 

"_Rumble" In Diagon Alley___

Along the safe cobbled streets we all know so well, there has been a brutal accident. One that most would not wish to mention. But this reporter, Rita Skeeter, is ready to give witches and wizards a true account of what happened on that fateful night.

The sounds of children's laughter had been deadened by booming shouts. With each spell spoken, each incantation whispered and each charm sent, the Dark Lord's remaining supporters seemed to swarm in. It may be true that the creature himself no longer exists but it is evident that those who followed him are still among us.

It has been told that known witches and wizards beneath the robed supporters were Antonin Dolohov, Walden Macnair and Bellatrix Lestrange. Known as the many who still stand for You-Know-Who's beliefs, those three along with others have done more than imaginable. We've seen them destroy other fellow wizards, fearing that they couldn't be stopped.

But while those who wore the masks entered, our own soldiers came in. Clad in robes of grand cotton and ready to defend those who needed it. Each blink seemed to sum Auror after Auror, and every one fighting with every last bone in their bodies.

One auror in particular, Nymphadora Tonks, fought harder and better than the rest. But the effort she gave seemed to come at a grave price. Although the spells sent by the woman saved many, it hit one man in particular. The death of the belove--

Rita stopped staring at the frame, hearing the voices of people coming closer to her office. Sharing the office of sorts with another hadn't been her favorite part of returning to the journalism career. As the door to her tiny office opened, Rita Skeeter slumped back into her seat, wishing she could find another story like that one.


	2. The Darkest of All Marks

**Author Note:** Thanks again to my three betas for not only this chapter but all the others. Enjoy!

Why would any sane person agree to this life?

That was the only question the black-haired woman wanted answered. To know why anyone would take this mask willingly was such a mystery to her. It was true that she herself had taken the mask along with the mark, but why would anyone else do the same? It seemed as if they didn't actually care for his cause. The Dark Lord was a great wizard and she felt as if only she knew it.

Bellatrix Lestrange twirled the white mask in her hand, sitting in her leather chair. It was often that she sat in her flat, darkness engulfing each corner. It was no different that night. Not even a prick of light could be spotted and quite honestly, Bella loved it.

This mystery of her fellow worshipers had stumped Bellatrix since the day the Lord fell once more. Being by his side in both wars, she couldn't quite grasp why he trusted those who had betrayed him. Hadn't Malfoy run the minute he was accused of following His lead? Followers like Pettigrew hid in the shadows, waiting for his return. All the while those like her, although few in numbers, would have done anything to nurse the Lord back to his powerful state.

'Maybe it's not worth worrying about it now', Bellatrix thought. The Dark Lord had been gone for nearly a year now, but his legacy still lived on. Those few who still believed in his values and dreams had come to each attack, had kept the spirit alive. For that, Bellatrix was grateful.

Even in their few numbers, those like her prevailed. Why, hadn't they cracked that insufferable Auror? Merlin—what was her name? Bellatrix knew of her sister's daughter but quite honestly, the name had slipped her mind ages ago. Either way, she had been blamed for his death. Although the main goal had been to simply scare those who defied Bellatrix and her fellows, his death had made the attack all the sweeter. If only all the riots could've ended that way.

A soft chuckle escaped Bellatrix as she thought of him lying lifeless on the pavement, her disgrace of a niece stunned at what she had done. Accident or not, she wouldn't be forgiven. Neither by his family and friends, nor by the entire Wizarding World. That happened to be the best part.

She had read that article by the Skeeter woman, complaining about her and the others' cause. It hadn't angered Bellatrix, far from it. She felt quite happy about publicity, the knowledge of the events being known through out England. Many would forget what they had done when they found out who died. Not to mention who had committed the crime.

A crime that would've made her a perfect follower.

The sight of her left forearm stopped the twirling of the mask. Still imprinted was the dark brand, the snake limp and lifeless. She dropped the white covering, softly running the tips of her fingers along the faint imprint. Oh how she wished it would burn—she wished he was still here. Bellatrix would've given anything to cry out in the pain that came with a summoning.

She rubbed her thumb against the mark, as though rubbing it would make it come alive. As she pressed harder and rubbed faster, a stinging feeling shot up her arm just as her nail caught against her pale skin. But it was okay, that pain was needed. It was so close to the one she wanted that it was welcomed.

This had happened once before, nearly days after he had finally gone. She had sat in this very seat, hurt and lost. It had yet to register in her mind that the insolent boy had done it. Not nearly a worthy wizard and yet he had defeated the best of them all. She would've done anything to rip out that boys black hair, to see him in the same pain she was in.

She had done the same thing that night, digging into her arm so deep that a scar still rested there that very day. The pain had come at a small price, the scar not truly important to her. In fact, the ridged line across her arm reminded her of better days. All she wanted was that feeling of her Lord once more.

Bellatrix let out a strangled cry, dropping her arms onto her lap. She sank deeper into the chair, her back buried deep inside the cushions. It wasn't good enough; she needed the sting of his call. Only months of suffering and she felt as though the world had ended. It may be so that she had her fellow followers there with her but it wasn't enough. They didn't have the power he had, nor did they possess the complete control as he did. He was the Dark Lord and they were nothing more than his servants.

Her eyes shut tightly, all she could see was darkness. It was soon interrupted by the sounds of a soft tapping. Groaning, Bellatrix sank even deeper into the cushions. She begged for the sound to go away. Who dared tap on the glass while she sat wallowing in all that she could. Yet still, the tapping continued, so she jumped up and angrily opened the window to the large, black owl.

Snatching the scroll from its thin legs, Bellatrix cursed the loud creature. Then the owl nipped her, its black beady eyes seeming to scowl at her before it flew off. She unrolled the note, staring intently at the single mark on the paper. It was of a skull with a snake intertwining. It meant a lot to those who knew its symbolic nature.

Bellatrix smiled - it seemed she was one of the few. After she read it, she dropped the parchment, snatching up her mask and wand afterwards. Before she disappeared into thin air, a pale finger tip ran gently across the Dark Mark once more.

"To you, My Lord," she whispered, sliding the mask over her head and drawing up her hood. A smirk crawled across her face as she thought of the possibilities of the night's outcome. Who knows, maybe another beloved man would die tonight too. With that last hope, she was gone.


	3. She'll Be Okay

**Author's Note:** Once again, thanks to Lyn, Juls and Tahi for help with this entire piece. You saved me. Enjoy!

A once odd and now rather worn woman rapped her knuckles on the purple bus door. The robes she wore seemed to mirror those of the man standing next to her. He sighed as she continued to knock on the door, disapproving of her impatience.

The driver of said bus held out an impatient hand, signaling to the woman to hold on. She could see another employee guiding a fragile old man through the scattered beds. Honestly, this particular woman didn't care for waiting for the man to step off the bus. She rapped her knuckles on the door once again. A horrifying glare was sent her way as the driver grew impatient with her.

Nymphadora Tonks sighed, pressing her flush face against the steel bus. The brown haired man that still stood beside her watched as she closed her eyes. He couldn't help but feel plagued by her constant sadness, wishing the old Tonks stood before him. The one who had been so lively, so happy. The glow she used to have had gone out ages ago and the man was certain it was a bad thing.

Her cheek felt on fire against the cool surface. She shifted restlessly as the door snapped open inches from her face. Out stepped the slow man, still guided by the bus staff. Once he disappeared down the street, the young employee rounded on Tonks, completely ignoring the man beside her... There was a dark look on his face.

"Get on," he barked, turning away from her before she could utter a word. She climbed the steps, her feet feeling like lead. The battered man followed her, his own feet feeling as heavy as hers.

For the third time and far from the last, the young woman sighed. It had been ages since the day her life had taken such a turn. Yet everyday it was harder to stand, harder to breathe. In such a short time everything had changed and the woman was certain she couldn't live through another day. Not while knowing her actions had caused so much pain.

They both did their respective beds, not nearly ready for the jolt that sent them sliding a foot forward as the bus moved onward. Tonks laid her unsually dark hair clad head onto the white pillow, the sickness in her stomach not taking away the emptiness inside.

While his companion lay her with eyes closed, the man gripped the posts of the bed, still seated upright.

"Tonks," he whispered, not truly knowing what he would say next. Her eyes opened, focused on his pale face. "We can't keep running," he told her quietly, his eyes locked onto hers.

A dark look came across her face, much more intense than the one that had been given to her by the bus staff. She lifted herself onto her elbows, still facing the man. "I've told you, Remus. If I stop, then I'll have to go back to that--" she paused, lowering herself down to the bedding once more, "to that horrid place. I can't do that."

Remus Lupin sighed before replying, "But it's not that horrid, it's--" 

"Yes it is, Remus," she interrupted, still lying down. Then she bit down on her bottom lip and stared up at the ceiling. "You have to understand that, you just have to."

He then gripped the post again. "I know it's hard, but it's your job, Tonks."

She shook her head, the rustling of the linen ringing through her ears. "I don't want that job anymore. I want a normal life." Then she looked straight at him, "I can't have a normal life as long as I work there."

"You didn't mean for it all to end as it did but that doesn't mean you should quit," he trailed off.

"My job wasn't to kill him, Remus," Tonks retorted, sinking deeper into the bed, glad that at least the employee refused to make conversation. She was certain she couldn't deal with the mindless chatter and invasive questions that usually came with the Knight Bus. The mere fact that the questioning by Remus rang in her ears made the smile fade from her face (and it had been a while since she had last smiled). If only all passengers aboard the bus would be silent...

The once very entertaining and unique woman seemed to have lost more of her appeal than even Remus could've anticipated. Once the woman who used to change her hair color on demand or her nose length, now lay in a musty bed with the most plain jane look written across her face. That barely visible smile used to be shown often, more than anyone who looked at the sad woman could've imagined. She had changed indeed.

To say Remus was saddened by this new woman was an understatement. As much as he understood the nature of the accident - of the death - he felt as if it had put an end to Tonks' life. 

Looking downwards, the woman stared at the shadow her boots made against the faded linen, just next to the foot of the bed. The simplicity of a shadow, or of any everyday occurrence, made a connection to that fateful night. And to the simplicity of the man himself as well as his family, the ones she had robbed the life from. 

Something so simple made her miss the life she had lead before that night. The simple life everyone lead while she sat, or rather lay, haunted by thoughts of his laughing face as opposed to the lifeless one against the cement.

Tonks heard the rustle of the bedding next to her, picturing Remus lying back down on the bed. She let out a low breath, hoping that she could finally stop thinking about that day. Maybe, just maybe, she could sleep through the ride without so much as one night's terror.

"No, it wasn't," his soft voice driffed over to her. "But that doesn't change anything, Tonks. You love your job, I know you do. You'll realize it, I know that too. You'll be okay, Tonks," he ended, staring at the chandelier that loomed above him.

"Maybe," she answered, her mumble barely loud enough for him to make out.


	4. The Clock's Hand

**Author's Note:**This is the last time you have to read me thanking my betas. So to them, thank you. Enjoy!

The chimes of the clock irritated her. The idea of smashing it to bits had crossed her mind nearly a thousand times, yet every time she knew it would break Molly's heart. She loved that clock and the nine hands that slowly moved around the various states. The woman briefly smiled at the hands placed at home and work. The mere fact that one of them stayed firmly placed at mortal peril was pushed away from her mind.

She looked back down at the book in her lap, something that had been recommended to her by Ron's friend. What was her name--it always slipped her mind, although she'd never admit it. Either way, the book managed to distract the woman from her thoughts. She was often lost in the world of Muggle tragedy, her own tragedy set aside.

She leaned back into the comfortable cushion, focusing her attention on the piece of writing before her. The swirling dialogue of a character named Romeo and one of Juliet wasn't tempting her as it did nearly every other day. Something about the small text and the silence of the room made it hard for her to truly care.

"My darling Fleur," called out a voice from the kitchen, one she knew very well. A soft smile crossed her face as another followed. "Shut it, my brother. For she is mine and only mine," the first man's brother cried, falling through the doorway dramatically.

"Oh my love, how I have missed you so," George Weasley mushed as he spotted her, sinking into the cushion beside Fleur. He seized her hand, Fred following behind. "But it is I, dearest Fleur, that have missed you the most," he said taking her other hand opposite the one his brother had taken. 

"You silly little boys," Fleur played along, prying her hands from their grip. "You must know by now that I am much too good for eeizer of you." A smile played across her face as she ignored their protesting cries.

"Surely not!" exclaimed George, jumping up in complete outrage. "We know it is one of us Weasley boys you desire--if it is not me, then who else? Ronald?" A laugh came from Fred. "If so, you're a mad woman."

Fred shook his head, taking Fleur's hands once more, "It can't be Ronald, he is not as handsome nor as smart as I. So it must be me!" Fleur shook her head, although the smile on her face still showed her amusement, "Is it Charlie? Do dragons tickle your fancy?"

"Surely not," Fleur mimicked George, still smiling.

"Then it has to be one of us. It can't be Bill, he's--" George stopped, eyes wide. The smile on Fleur's face dropped nearly as fast as Fred's hands dropped hers.

"I..." George stammered, sinking back into the comfortable seat. How could he even mention such a thing. "I didn't mean to..." he trailed off again, afraid to look up at Fleur.

"Eet's all right," she said shortly, closing her book. A tiny glance towards the ticking clock made her heart sink even more.

"No," he answered, shaking his head, "It's not okay--I shouldn't have even mentioned him."

Fleur sighed, this time standing up. She gripped the book tightly to her chest, wishing she could lose herself in its pages. "Leeve it be, George," she whispered before leaving the room, hoping to go anywhere the clock wasn't in sight.

She stepped out into the bushy garden, imagining the scowls George was now receiving. Really, it wasn't his fault. It hadn't been more than a few months since that day, so how was he to know it still stung her? Fleur sighed, placing herself onto the ground, running her hands through the thick grass.

Opening the yellowing pages, Fleur attempted to focus on those words for the millionth time. But all she could think about, all she could hear were the sobs of Molly and the feeling of more hugs than she needed. The smell of the sickly sweet flowers still filled her nostrils and she was certain the site of headstones would forever haunt her.

Above the thought of those flowers and the stones, the constant ticking of that clock drove Fleur to near madness. She could barely look at it, knowing on of its hands continued to stay put while the others moved. As the rest of the family moved forward, even close to talk about him again, Fleur could only focus on that bloody clock. Its ticking and its chimes ringing throughout the house. Indeed, it had been months but she didn't think she could take one more sound it made.

The tiny print of the page blurred as she faintly heard the ticking of the clock. Maybe she was truly mad or maybe it was truly that loud. Either way, it pounded in her ears, egging her on. Fleur groaned, pressing her palms against her ears. But it wasn't helping, as the constant ticking grew louder and louder.

She closed her eyes tight, remembering the day she was told. The day he was gone forever. His freckled face lay lifeless on the streets of Diagon Alley, Aurors fighting all around him. It was said to her that one Auror in particular collasped into a corner, tears streaking her face. Her wand had fallen to her side, dropped during the excitement.

Fleur cried out in pain, leaping up from her spot as if it had burned her. She stared through the door back in the Burrow, the clock in full view. Fleur stepped into the house, the sounds of her steps on the carpet seeming to echo through the room.

In near seconds, she stood before the clock, staring at the unmoving hand. It had sat in ithis position for months, not once quivering. Fleur reached up and tugged on the gold handle, pulling harder for it wouldn't budge. Tears slid down her cheeks as she gripped the handle with two hands, tugging with all her might.

Fleur was roughly shoved backwards the second his hand sprang off the clock. In her hands it lay, his freckled and scarred face staring up at her. She closed her hands around it, tears falling faster now. She felt herself move towards the door, heading back to the garden. Fleur was dimly aware of her knees hitting the floor, her pale hands digging into the dark dirt. She dropped the hand into the small hole, shoving the dirt over it.

An echoing sob escaped her, the mixture of new and old tears on her face ignored by her need to grieve. She had finally given him the proper end, put in the place he would lay.

Forever.


End file.
